Nothing But Scandal

by Allegra Gray

  But it was more than that. His touch, his kiss, made her forget everything else. Made her forget how she’d spent her life being a disappointment to her mother, how her father had deceived her, how her whole life had shattered after his death. How the men who’d once courted her suddenly turned away when she came near. With Alex, she felt desirable, worthy.

  He’d left without so much as a farewell. Had she meant so little to him? Was he truly as the rumors painted—a shameless seducer of women? It pained her to believe it.

  Perhaps something had come up. A matter of business, or politics, that required his immediate presence in London. And if that was true, she reasoned, it would only arouse suspicions for him to linger, then seek out the governess for a particular good-bye. Still, with Alex gone, the days stretched emptily before her.

  Luckily, Elizabeth received a letter in the post on Tuesday that turned her mind from the sensuous but unpredictable duke.

  The familiar loopy writing on the envelope brought a smile to her face, but it faded as she read the contents of Charity’s missive.

  Dearest E.,

  It’s simply not the same without you home. Mother isn’t speaking to anyone, except perhaps Uncle, and only then when Uncle ceases his interminable lectures on “proper” behavior. They suspect I know where you are, but I haven’t said a word, which only increases their wrath. Not that I blame you for leaving. Lady Pullington told me where to write, and I’m so happy you’ve found a position.

  And in spite of it all, I’m doing well. Except for the most embarrassing thing. I was returning from the park with Mary Sutherby and her mother this morning, and we were coming up the steps just as a messenger stopped at our house. Well, I told him I’d take the message, saving him the trouble of delivering it formally. Of course, you know how curious I am. I couldn’t just give it to Mother, though it was addressed to Lady Medford. So after Mary was gone, I used that trick you taught me—using steam to soften the seal. Anyhow, it was from another of father’s debtors. They aren’t very happy.

  Elizabeth, do you remember the brooch father gave you the year you made your bow? I feel terrible telling you this, but the shop he purchased it from sold it to him on credit. He never paid. The letter said they’d respectfully waited until the family had time to settle the estate, but now they must request payment. What am I to do? Of course I know there isn’t any money to cover it. I hate to tell Mother and Uncle, for it will only anger them further. Do you still have the brooch? Do you think the store would accept its return? I’m so very sorry to ask it of you, E., but I haven’t any jewelry of my own, or anything I can think to sell that would fetch a price. Please advise.

  Oh, and do be well, Elizabeth. I’ll conspire with Lady Pullington to visit if I can.

  Your loving sister,

  Charity

  Elizabeth read the letter twice, folded it carefully, and tucked it into the small trunk in her room next to the nursery. She rummaged at the bottom of the trunk, finally extracting a small velvet pouch. She sat back and poured the contents into her hands.

  The brooch winked up at her, a cluster of small, delicately set emeralds. “To match your eyes,” Papa had told her. She’d been so proud when he’d presented it to her. “My little girl, all grown up,” he’d said.

  Elizabeth’s throat grew tight. Whatever else he’d been, her papa had cared about her. She refused to believe otherwise. Of course, she now knew he shouldn’t have been presenting her with such trinkets. The brooch resting in her hand had never even been paid for. Perhaps he’d intended to pay for it eventually. She wanted to believe that.

  But more than a year had passed between its purchase and her father’s death—meaning her father’s funds had been low for far longer than anyone had known. She’d been raised to think that taking something you couldn’t pay for was stealing. It hurt to think of Papa as a thief.

  The brooch seemed to grow heavier, the twinkling stones mocking her. She slipped it back in its pouch, noticing the name of the shop, Gertman’s, embroidered in gold thread on the velvet.

  There was no way her governess’s wages would cover fine jewelry. As much as it hurt, she would have to pray the shop would accept the item’s return in place of payment. At least it was in her possession.

  Elizabeth went to fetch writing paper. She composed a note to the jeweler, requesting a meeting, and another to Charity, telling her sister not to worry.

  Chapter Seven

  “Will ye be wantin’ aught else, Yer Grace?”

  Alex shook his head impatiently.

  “We do ’ave a private dinin’ room, if ye prefer.”

  The solicitous owner of the White Hart had already informed him of that fact, twice. “No, thanks.”

  Alex hadn’t intended to stop at the inn at all. He’d been on his way to pay a surprise visit to his sister—knowing full well it was Sunday and that Elizabeth would have the afternoon free. He wasn’t ignoring Brian Grumsby’s subtle warning, exactly, but two weeks in London without Elizabeth had convinced him it was worth the risk.

  Except that when he’d passed the White Hart, he’d seen none other than Miss Elizabeth Medford, pretty as you please, strolling up to the door.

  Curious, he’d followed her inside, realizing she hadn’t spotted him.

  She’d scanned the room. An unfamiliar man with pale brown, thinning hair and spectacles stood upon seeing her. She hurried over and took a seat across from him.

  Alex’s gut clenched as he followed her.

  Her eyes flared in surprise—or was that fear?—when she’d finally seen him. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I was about to ask the same of you.”

  She squared her shoulders. “It’s none of your concern, Your Grace.”

  The mousy man across from her appeared horrified by her demeanor, but Alex grinned. “Everything about you concerns me.”

  “On that, we will have to disagree.” There was an arch quality to her voice, but she bit her lip as she glanced back at her table partner. She was nervous. “Your Grace, I have business to conduct. May I respectfully ask you to take your presence elsewhere?”

  “Certainly,” Alex agreed. “As soon as I’ve had a meal. I’m famished.”

  With that, he’d taken a seat three tables over. Damned if he’d leave before he figured out what she was up to. He ordered a stew he had no interest in, then watched Elizabeth as the innkeeper hovered about, anxious to please.

  At the moment, Alex would have loved to make use of the private dining room, if only to haul Elizabeth inside and shake some sense into her.

  What did she think she was doing, meeting a man who, by all appearances, she didn’t even know? Of course, as tempting as it was to scold her, he knew her reputation would be utterly destroyed if she was seen entering a private dining room occupied solely by the Duke of Beaufort.

  The innkeeper finally wandered off to tend to his less illustrious customers, which at this hour consisted of Elizabeth, the strange man, and a single other table occupied by two men in traveling gear.

  Alex stared down at his cup as he rethought the wisdom of pursuing the delectable Miss Medford. In truth, he admired her spirit, her risk-taking. He had no doubt that that spirit would translate to passionate lovemaking—if it didn’t land her in serious danger first. He eyed her table.

  The traveling duo stood, patting their bellies in appreciation of the hearty food, and exited.

  Alex shifted his chair slightly, trying to get a better look at the man across from Elizabeth. He watched as she pulled out a small pouch, showed the contents to the man. Their voices were too low to hear—no doubt because of his presence, but it was clear they were negotiating.

  The man picked up a small magnifying glass and held a brooch beneath it.

  Ah. Elizabeth was selling her jewelry. Alex felt a pang of sympathy that surprised him. Until he realized she was choosing to sell her possessions rather than become his mistress, and was even risking a clandestine meeting with a s
trange man at a public house to do it.

  If only she wasn’t so stubbornly independent, they could dispense with such nonsense. He’d happily cover her expenses, if only she’d give in to the pleasure they both desired. Alex shoved his hands in his pockets. It was asking too much of an innocent. He knew it, but every time he saw her, the need to possess her, protect her, grew stronger. That need was winning the war with good manners. Perhaps, once she fully understood the pleasures of lovemaking and the benefits such a position would afford her…

  “It can’t be!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

  Alex narrowed his eyes.

  The man across from her shrugged apologetically. “I assure you, Miss Medford, I tell the truth.”

  Her shoulders slumped.

  Alex could hear the conversation now, and he listened intently.

  “If you know the whereabouts of the true brooch, my shop will accept its return. But this is not it.” He returned the piece. His neck flushed as though he were uncomfortable.

  “My shop will accept its return.” Alex watched Elizabeth’s fist close slowly over the brooch. She wasn’t here to sell jewelry, but to return it?

  “Nooo,” she moaned softly. She leaned forward, head in hand. “It must be real. It was a gift.”

  Realization struck him, along with a flash of pity.

  Alex stood and crossed the distance to Elizabeth’s table. “Can I be of assistance here?” he asked.

  She shook her head without lifting her face from her hand. Then, suddenly seeming to remember her manners, she looked up and stood, curtsying hastily. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I was distraught.”

  “And the cause of your distress?”

  She shook her head again. “A personal matter.”

  The shop’s representative stood as well but wisely remained silent.

  Alex remembered his reputation for extravagance with the fairer sex. In this case, it would serve him well.

  “It pains me to see a lady in distress,” he gallantly declared. “If the cause is the lovely brooch you were so recently examining, I am happy to see the matter settled.”

  “But—” Elizabeth began.

  “If the merchant does not wish the return of the piece you hold, perhaps I may be allowed to make it a gift to you?”

  He shot a look at the jeweler’s representative. Both men knew the bit of glass clutched in Elizabeth’s fingers was worthless.

  But the merchant once again showed good training by keeping his face expressionless as he informed the duke of the price.

  Alex nodded. “Send the bill to my secretary. I’ll see to it forthwith.”

  He handed the man a twenty-pound note. “For you. I want no mention of my involvement, nor of your meeting with this young lady, in your records.”

  “Of course not, Your Grace.”

  “Then I trust this matter is settled.”

  “Yes, Your Grace, thank you.” The merchant bowed and left hastily, no doubt gleefully thinking of how he would spend the very generous sum the duke had bestowed upon him.

  Alex turned to Elizabeth. Her cheeks bore bright patches of pink as she kept her gaze lowered.

  “I’m so ashamed,” she whispered.

  “What cause have you for shame?”

  “The brooch. It wasn’t real. I never thought…my father gave it to me. It was special. Except—except I think he must have subsequently sold the real piece and substituted this one, for the merchant said this”—she unclosed her fist—“is naught but glass and paste.”

  He felt her embarrassment. “It isn’t your fault.”

  Finally she met his eye. “Thank you for what you did. You are very chivalrous, Your Grace, and have saved me considerable discomfort. I can’t repay you right now, as I’m sure you know. But I promise I’ll save enough from my wages—” her words spilled out in a torrent.

  “Shh.” He put a finger to her lips. “You do not owe me.”

  “But—”

  The innkeeper came out from the back and filled his arms with the other diners’ used dishes, glancing between Elizabeth and the duke. “Back in a moment,” he said, disappearing again with the dirty dishes.

  Alex quickly closed the remaining distance between them, cupping her shoulders gently.

  “Elizabeth, you torment me. These past two weeks I’ve thought of little else.” He maintained his gallant tone, though his words held more truth than he cared to admit. He stroked down her arms and took her hands in his, hoping the innkeeper was wise enough to take his time in back.

  He leaned in for a kiss—just a quick one, he promised himself, since the room had emptied of other patrons—but a movement near the door distracted him.

  A man stood in the doorway, his head turned in profile as he spoke a last word with the stable boy before coming inside. A man Alex had hoped never to see again.

  What the hell was he doing here? Alex’s forehead broke out in a sweat and his stomach clenched.

  The peasant garb the man wore was different from the livery he’d been in when Alex had seen him last, but the face was unmistakable.

  Fuston. The Medfords’ former coachman—the man who’d driven the baron on the night of his “accident.”

  It was imperative, Alex realized with a start, that Elizabeth not see him. If she did, she would most certainly recognize him. And she might ask questions. Questions about her father.

  Questions Alex would prefer remained unraised.

  Alex flew into action, clasping Elizabeth to him and seizing her lips in a searing kiss that sent her staggering backward. He clasped her tighter, moving backward himself and pulling her with him.

  He could feel her confusion, her pent-up desire. Her lips matched his, even as she struggled to regain her footing, protesting the awkwardness of the embrace.

  Alex ignored the protest and continued pulling her with him toward the back of the inn, never breaking the kiss. They passed a very surprised innkeeper, but a quick frown from the duke and the man pointed toward an open door.

  Alex felt behind him for the handle, his tongue tangling wildly with Elizabeth’s as he maneuvered them both into the room and shut the door behind them, closing them into the private dining room he’d insisted he didn’t need.

  “Hell.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened at his language.

  “My apologies,” he muttered. He drew in a ragged breath, surprised by the intensity of his body’s reaction to a kiss that couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds.

  She smiled up at him. “I’m flattered, my lord, to think you’ve missed me so terribly. But I’d have followed you willingly. Was your haste truly so great?”

  “You’ve no idea, my sweet,” he murmured, finally gentling their embrace. He wasn’t about to let her go, though. Not only was his desire awakened, but he was still in control of his thoughts just enough to remember he didn’t want her questioning their sudden rush into this room.

  There was little chance Fuston had gotten a good enough look to identify them. There was even less chance he would follow them back here. Which meant Alex simply needed to find a way to pass enough time for the man to leave before he and Elizabeth exited.

  She pressed little nipping kisses along his jaw, and her hands slid inside his coat to stroke his back.

  Need consumed him. Hell. What good was a private room if one didn’t put it to use?

  He dipped his head and the kiss she’d aimed at his jaw landed square on his lips. Her eyes widened and she smiled. He couldn’t remember ever kissing a smiling woman before. It was rather nice.

  He hauled her against his length. She was all warm, soft woman. For two weeks—nay, longer—he’d thought of nothing but this. His own body hardened with the need to make her his. Elizabeth’s smile evaporated and her eyes widened further at the evidence of his passion. This was better than nice.

  He slid his hands down her back and she rocked against him, a seeking, uncertain movement. That uncertainty triggered a warning in the depths of his passion-drugg
ed mind. In spite of his wicked intentions, a shred of honor remained in his soul, and it reminded him now that Elizabeth was an innocent.

  “Ah, Elizabeth,” he rasped. “You should tell me to stop.” With regret, he shifted her away from him.

  Elizabeth paused, her breath ragged, her body flooded with the need to touch and be touched. Most of her life had been dictated by what she “should” do, and it had never made her happy. Only these past months, when she’d flouted the dictates of Society and made her own life, had she any inkling of freedom or joy.

  Or pleasure.

  She stared at the duke, undecided. Tempted. His eyes promised endless heat. His hair was rumpled where her fingers had been moments ago. To continue down this path would mean her ruination. Then again, she was already an outcast. She couldn’t bear the thought of turning away from the one man who made her feel beautiful, desirable. The kisses they’d shared before had only fueled her belief that without him, life was empty.

  For the past two weeks, she’d lived with the ache of not knowing whether she would see him again. She’d been miserable. And then this afternoon, he’d arrived out of nowhere. He’d been her hero, her rescuer.

  He could be gone again tomorrow. But today, he was hers. And she would claim him.

  Slowly she shook her head. “I can’t tell you to stop,” she whispered. “I don’t want you to.”

  He exhaled harshly. He’d been holding his breath, she realized with a rush of gladness. He wanted her as much as she did him.

  She stepped close again, bereft without his touch. He chuckled. “Wanton.”

  She flushed but met his gaze, hungry for another kiss.

  He gazed back, eyes dark with passion, and slowly traced one finger down her neck and collarbone. His touch was almost delicate, in stark contrast to the strength of his hands and the intensity of his expression. A series of shivers radiated down her spine.